After the inspection by Sheridan, we began the march (we knew not where to) under a heavy guard—a whole regiment of infantry to guard eleven hundred prisoners. This guard was old soldiers, who knew how to treat a prisoner. They were kind to us. Nothing of special interest occurred on this day. We arrived at Winchester about sundown. We got some rations, ate supper, lay down to sleep, when we were hurriedly aroused and ordered to "fall in line quickly," "fall in," "fall in."
"What is the trouble?" I ventured to ask.
"Mosby! Mosby is coming."
The name of Mosby was a holy terror to the Federals in that part of Virginia. Silently we prayed that Mosby might make a dash and rescue us. All night long we vainly listened for the clatter of the hoops of Mosby's troopers. But, alas! Mosby did not come. The rumor was false. We took up the night march under double guard. A line of cavalry was placed outside the already heavy infantry guard. The night was dark and drizzly—a good night to escape, had not the guard been so heavy. There were two infantry guards to every four prisoners, besides the outer cavalry guard. The hope of an escape was a forlorn one, but I made the attempt and succeeded in passing both guards, but in my [461] ecstacy I foolishly ran in the dark, and ran right squarely against a plank fence with so much force as to attract the attention of a cavalryman, who was soon at my side and escorted me back with a "d——n you, stay in your place." Several prisoners more fortunate than myself did succeed in making their escape in the darkness.
The guards had kindly informed us that at Harper's Ferry we would be searched and relieved of all valuables, and if we had a knife or anything that we desired to retain, they would keep it for us until after the search. This promise they sacredly kept. The search, or robbery as I call it, was very rigid. Like vandals, they searched every pocket and relieved us of all money, pocket-books, knives, keys, and every other thing, except our tobacco. I beat them a little, notwithstanding their rigid search. I had a five-dollar greenback note inside of my sock at the bottom of my boot. This they failed to find.
From Harper's Ferry to Baltimore, the trip was by rail at night. The guard had now been greatly reduced, only eight to each coach. They had got plenty of whiskey for themselves and for all who wanted it. We were having a jolly good time. At this point, knowing that we were in a friendly part of Maryland, I conceived the idea of making a dash for the guns of the guard, uncoupling the rear coaches, put on the brakes, and make our escape across the Potomac. This plan was quietly communicated to all the prisoners in this the rear coach. All agreed to the plan, except Lieutenant Colonel McMichael, of the Twentieth South Carolina Regiment. He protested so strongly that the plan was abandoned. The trip from this on to Fort Delaware was without incident or special interest.
On our arrival at Fort Delaware we were again subjected to a rigid examination and search, and what few trinkets the kind guards saved for us at Harper's Ferry, were now taken away from us. I, however, saved my five-dollar greenback note, which was safely ensconced inside my sock at the bottom of my foot. Here officers and privates were separated and registered, each as to command, rank, and state. The heavy gates swung open with a doleful noise. We marched in amid the shouts of the old prisoners, "fresh fish," "fresh fish." I wanted to fight right then and there. I did not want to be guyed. I wanted [462] sympathy, not guying. "Fresh fish" was the greeting all new arrivals received, and I being an apt scholar, soon learned to shout "fresh fish" as loud as a Texas cowboy.
The heavy prison gates closed around with a dull sepulchral sound, and prison life began in earnest, with Brigadier General Schoeff master of ceremonies. The prison was in the shape of an oblong square, with the "shacks" or "divisions" on the long side and at the short sides or ends. At the other long side was built a plank fence twelve or fifteen feet high. This fence separated the officers and privates. Near the top of this fence was erected a three-foot walk, from which the strictest guard was kept over both "pens" day and night. Fifteen feet from this plank fence on either side was the "dead line." Any prisoner crossing the "dead line" was shot without being halted. There was not an officer shot during my eight months' sojourn there, but it was a frequent occurrence to hear the sharp report of a guard's rifle, and we knew that some poor, unfortunate Confederate soldier had been murdered. The cowardly guards were always on the lookout for any semblance of an excuse to shoot a "d——n Rebel."
There was a rigid censorship placed over all mail matter being sent from or received at the "pen." All letters were read before being mailed, and all being received were subjected to the same vigilant censorship. They were all opened and read by an official to see that they contained nothing "contraband of war." Money was "contraband." Only such newspapers as suited the fastidious taste of General Schoeff were permitted to come inside the "pen." The officers and privates were supposed to be strictly "incommunicado," but even these found means of communication. The open, spacious courts on both sides of the separating fence, on fair days, were always thronged with men taking exercise. A short note—a small piece of coal was the "mail coach"—the route was the "air line"—the note securely tied to the piece of coal, and at an opportune moment, when the guard's face was in a favorable direction, the "mail" passed over the "air line" into the other pen, and vice versa. This line kept up a regular business, but was never detected.
A large majority of prisoners (officers) had some acquaintance, friend, or relative in Baltimore, New York, or other Northern cities, [463] who would gladly furnish money or clothing to them. Provisions were not permissible under the rules and regulations of the prison authorities. Baltimore, especially, and New York did much toward relieving the burdens of prison life. Such inestimable ladies as Mrs. Mary Howard, of Baltimore, and Mrs. Anna Hoffman, of New York, deserve an everlasting monument of eternal gratitude for the great and good service rendered the unfortunate Confederate prisoners. These philanthropic ladies, with hundreds of other sympathizing men and women of the North, kept many of us furnished with money and clothing. The money itself we were not permitted to have. In its stead the prison officials issued the amounts of money on bits of parchment in denominations of five cents, ten cents, twenty-five cents, fifty cents, and one dollar pieces. This was the prison currency. The prison name for it was "sheepskin." The prison officials would not allow us to have the "cold cash," lest we should enter into a combination and bribe an important guard, thereby effecting an escape. The "sheepskin" answered every other purpose for trade. We had a suttler who was a suttler right. He was a real, genuine, down-east Yankee. He loved money ("sheepskins" were money to him), and he would furnish us with anything we wanted for plenty "sheepskins." He would even furnish whiskey "on the sly," which was positively prohibited by the prison regulations. He had only to go to headquarters at the close of the day and have his "sheepskins" cashed in genuine greenbacks, and he went away happy and serene, to dream of more "sheepskins."